


ColorBlind

by Inky (blueskies_88)



Category: Also inspired by the, Believer - Imagine Dragons (Song), Imagine Dragons (Band), Original Work, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Anxiety, Apathy, Believer, Blood, Death, Depression, Desperation, Family, Fear, How do I tag that?, If anyone knows, Inspired by Percy Jackson, Technically I think he destroyed the whole building with everyone in it, Undead, Violence, imagine dragons, please let me know, soliders, wrote it because of thta imagine dragons sonf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28579560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueskies_88/pseuds/Inky
Summary: "Finally, he was not the only one being eaten by this monster in his stomach. Eating at him for so long. Nibbling. Now ravishing everything in its wake. It was free. It was too much. It was exhilarating and deafening, and it was killing him."I wrote this about a couple years ago when I was realizing I had repressed alot of my anxiety and depression and needed to work through it to get better. This image of this kid being torn apart about his memories and colors was stuck in my head. Listened to Believer by Imagine Dragon for like 2 weeks straight. Then wrote this. It helped. I don't need it the same way anymore, but maybe someone else will relate. Maybe I might come back to this one day. Flesh out that lore, Percy Jackson style. Until then, enjoy?
Kudos: 1





	ColorBlind

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if I missed any trigger warnings, let me know. I'm new, but I'll learn to keep you safe on my darker writings. No judgements. Stay safe.

**Watch me.**  
The words had erupted from him, harsh and commanding.  
Everyone stared.  
He had never stood out. All shadows and dark intent. Quiet hands and unspoken words.  
He was nothing. Not to them, not to the person in the mirror. He had nothing left.   
So he said yes, and he gave it all.

A huge burst of light exploded from within him. A spiral of colors swirling from the center. Each one as bright and purposeful as the last. Each one necessary and needed. Each one doing its part. Meshing and melding into one continuous stream of light flowing out of him. Out of his very core, so strong and hot he felt he was melting. He thought his blood was boiling and he would collapse from the sheer joy of release and pain and the release of pain he had held in for so long. Everything that had torn him apart inside he let go into the light. 

The purple shadow that was the memory of his loneliness and his intelligence. The blue that was his isolation and his comfort. The green of his home and family. The yellows of his childhood and the light bearing down on him so bright. The orange of his friends waiting for him outside. The reds of his rage, his pain, at the center of it all: his love. He fed it all to the monster, greedy for release. So quickly it took from him, the shock of it. He felt there would truly be nothing left when it finished with him.   
Still he pushed. 

The squadron of dead soldiers that had come in here, into his school, his home, grinning with malicious intent were now screaming, wailing in agony. He could not hear them. There were more waiting just outside the door. The light needed more. So he gave.

A sharp green flash. The memory of his first love. Soft dark hair pushed away from huge eyes. Their dark forest green color matching the hue of the memory.  
The light grew.  
Another. This time his little sister swathed in pale yellow. Her small hands freckled with paint and dirt. Holding his own larger ones as she slept peacefully on his shoulder.  
Again. There was his father. In a welcoming and warm embrace of amber. Holding out his arms.  
And then his mother. The mother he remembered before she turned. Before she became “Mrs. Noir.” There she stands. Striking in a soothing opalescent glow. His mother. Beautiful with her crooked nose and rough hands and stained skin. Finally. The center. His center. He had found it. And he had to let it go now. So he did.

A mini sun in the middle of their auditorium. A force with the power of all the gods behind him. Unstoppable when it started. Devastating where it touched. It consumed. Finally, he was not the only one being eaten by this monster in his stomach. Eating at him for so long. Nibbling. Now ravishing everything in its wake. It was free. It was too much. It was exhilarating and deafening, and it was killing him.

...

At the end of it all, there was nothing left. Except him at the center of a circle of scorched earth.

Everything was gone. He looked up. He felt rather than saw the blue sky, so bright and clear. The sunlight, so pure and natural, unlike the vicious thirsty radiance within him, already building and growing again, soon it will be another painful ball of pressure inside of his stomach. The sunlight with its easy going beauty cooled his skin. It made the sudden loss of brilliance bearable in what seemed like a void made of a clear baby blue sky. 

And then a miracle.   
Rain.   
It was raining.

He began to laugh. Of course, the gods were looking down at him. They saw him in all his luminous glory burning and decided he was worth saving. They sent him a rain to cool him down after nearly burning out. He laughed again at the blue sky and stuck his tongue out, hoping to catch the cool wetness of a drop.

It felt dusty. It tasted like dirt. He felt even drier. He opened his eyes and saw that baby blue sky speckled with dull grey spots. He touched one and it shattered.   
It wasn't rain.  
It was ash.

He bent over.  
There it was again. That pain in the pit of his stomach. He pushed his fists again in dry heaving in desperation.

“No,” he gasped,”nonono, please no.”

He has just gotten it all out. What he had wanted to do since it all began. Since he first felt that sensation bloom. He had felt release. Felt those few moments afterwards the bliss of the cool rain.   
But it wasn't rain.  
It was ash. 

He knew. Somehow inside he felt he knew it would come to this. He was covered in, he had tasted, rejoiced in the ashes of his enemies and friends. Soldiers and innocents. That's what those grey spots in the bright blue sky were.

His vision clouded over. He thought for one fleeting second that he must have some moisture to be able to conjure up tears. But they were not tears. He could not see because everything looked like the sky. He felt the memory take over.

“No!” he cried out. Fear and frustration coating his raspy voice.

Still all he could see was pure blue marred by grey. A new memory.

The ball of pain and anguish inside him coiled, wrapping itself in this new memory. One that so obviously held two different colors. Blue and Grey. That was new. He did not feel the same pure blistering pain he had before. It felt like everything had drained out of him to be replaced with a dullness. A constant dull pain. A weight bearing down on him. Numbing him. He could not feel the same. He grew frightened. He thought it would be a relief to feel nothing. Instead he panicked.

He began to claw at his stomach, creating new marks on top of the scabs and scars already there. A wave of apathy loomed nearer. He dug his fingers into his flesh, relishing the blood. 

Suddenly, there was a new color. A streak of dark maroon smeared across the blue and grey.  
He stopped.  
He looked down. The same shade was on his fingers, his stomach, blooming like a flower in places where his ragged shirt touched his skin.

He began to shake. Still seeing the triad of colors making an overlay in his vision. He could not get rid of it. Usually the colors would have blended together and formed a new memory. Then he would have a few minutes respite before he could create a new one. Now it seemed those minutes of rest were gone. He could handle the overlay vision. He could see in more than one color at once. He looked at the world and saw only color. There was nothing but pigments and hues. 

He curled into himself. Holding onto the earth. Earth mixed with grey ash. Outside of his memories, this physical evidence covering his hands, his hair, his face, was the only remainder and reminder of what happened here. He could feel it touching him. The guilt. The terror. The bliss. The horror. Covering him even as he could only see those three colors. The ash permeating his parched skin as the colors were penetrating his mind. Taking over. Inside him. With every breath and thought, inhaling the remains of his enemies and friends. He couldn’t breathe.  
He dry heaved again and could only cough up dusts of colors. He should have been dead. He should have been incinerated in such an explosion of color and power. Instead he lay there, sobbing as much as he could while so dehydrated. He thought once he gave in, it would be over. He was wrong. It hadn’t killed him. He had grown stronger. 

This was his curse.


End file.
